Watching the Lamb
by Ripa J. Sattva
Summary: Sacrifice. What price is too high to pay? Post DT. Very AU, not a tag. Sacrifice&Limp!Sam, Hurt&BigBrother!Dean, Angst, whumpage. NOW WITH ART.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This starts after Devil's Trap, but it's not really a tag, because I think it's pretty AU after that. This is for all those poor folks who think there isn't enough Sam in season 2.

Disclaimer: I guess I should say that I don't own them, and I'm not getting paid.

Summary: Sacrifice, what cost is too much to pay? Post DT. Sacrifice/Limp!Sam, Bigbrother!Dean, Wee!chesters, lotsa angst, and whumpage.

Anything in italics is either flashbacks or thoughts.

**Watching the Lamb**

Ripa J. Sattva

November 16, 2006

_For there will be so many, in Jerusalem today. We must be sure the lamb doesn't run away…Then I said, dear children, watch the lamb.—**Watch the Lamb**-Ray Boltz_

**Chapter One**

"_Does Dean really do all of this?" Sam asked, dropping the hoe and rake into a clattering heap of garden tools, and wiping at a drip of sweat that he imagined was forming on his ten-year-old brow. _

"_Of course he does, Sam," Pastor Jim answered. "Your brother's a great hand to have around the garden, especially when there're weeds to be pulled, and vegetables to be picked," he added motioning toward the heaping bushel basket of tomatoes and cucumbers. "He's a whole lot better suited to the bending and stooping than I am anymore." He massaged a twinge in his aching back and lifted the straw hat from his head to release some of the heat that had boiled up under the late morning sun, before he shoved it back down forcefully over his longish brown hair. _

_Dean always said Pastor Jim wore his hair like that so he'd look like Jesus, and people would pay more attention to him in church. He wasn't sure that was the actual reason, but Sam kinda liked it. As far as explanations went, that one was just so Dean, and even though Sam wasn't as naïve as he used to be, he still wanted to believe everything his big brother told him. Even when it just turned out to be Dean speak and sarcasm, Sam still hungered for anything that was even remotely Deanesque and familiar in their ever-changing life._

_So, Sam didn't know why Pastor Jim wore his hair long, and he didn't know too many grown men who wore long hair. He did think, though, that he just might try growing his own hair out when he grew up, so that he could comb through it and laugh at that joke he'd shared with his brother so many years in the past. As brothers, they shared a lot, but laughter was something Sam always wished they shared more of._

"_So how come, if there's so much to do out here, Dean never asked me to come out and help him?" Sam asked, gazing with exhaustion at the amount of cleanup they had yet to do. _

_Jim thought about it with pursed lips and one cocked eyebrow, an expression that Sam had noticed Dean copying lately. "Well, Sam, why did you volunteer to do it today, without knowing there was so much to do?" He asked._

_Sam's face scrunched, and he shrugged one shoulder dismissively. "Well," he started and paused, "I knew Dean was excited because Dad promised to take him out in the back forty and teach him to drive. But he was worried because he knew you needed him to help in the yard, too. I didn't want him to miss out." He shrugged again dismissively. He didn't think Pastor Jim had a brother. He probably didn't understand._

"_And what are you usually doing while Dean helps me out here?" Jim asked leadingly. _

"_Reading," Sam answered without pause. "You got so many books, about everything I could ever wanna know, I think. And we don't get to read much except what Dad tells us to read and homework stuff. I love coming here."_

"_Don't you think Dean knows that, just like you know how much he wanted to go driving with your Dad today?" _

_Sam thought about it and smiled. "Yeah, I guess he does." He paused again, looking forlornly at the pile of tools. "Still, it's a lot of work. Seems like too much for a kid." A beat. "Doesn't the Bible say kids shouldn't have to do work?" He tried to hide his sarcastic smirk by ducking his eyes away._

_Jim laughed, thick and bubbly, head tilted back slightly. John Winchester's boys were always such joys to have around. Sam's habit of questioning anything and everything always kept the pastor on his toes. While Dean's obedience and trust were refreshing and admirable, little Sam's stubborn refusal to accept anything that wasn't fully explained and deemed acceptable to his analytical mind was also admirable when so many children these days seemed indifferent and spoiled. "Actually," Jim explained, "children in the Bible had very important jobs, too."_

"_Like what?"_

"_Like watching the lamb," Jim answered thoughtfully. Noting Sam's puzzled expression, he clarified. "You see, Sam, God's people were called upon to sacrifice a lamb as atonement for their sins. People came from miles around to celebrate and witness the sacrifice. It was the children's job to make sure that the lamb did not escape its pen and run away before the ceremony."_

_Sam looked at him quizzically. "They killed a little lamb to make up for their sins? Why a lamb?"_

_Jim shrugged, bending to pick up the basket of fresh vegetables they'd picked and starting toward the house, Sam trailing along behind him, enrapt. "It wasn't so much that it was a lamb. It was really what the lamb meant to them." He set the vegetables on the porch that wrapped around his ancient Victorian farmhouse. "God's people were poor. They didn't have a lot to give. Livestock was very valuable. For many of them, a lamb was all they had to give, so sacrificing it was a powerful message to God. And many people believed that the greater the sacrifice, the greater their rewards would be in Heaven."_

_Sam sat beside the pastor and pulled his knees up to his chin, wrapped his arms around them tightly, and settled his head atop them, deep in thought. "Pastor Jim?"_

"_Yes, Sam?"_

"_We're poor, too, aren't we?" His eyes were barely visible as he gazed downward at the wooden steps, long, dark lashes sweeping over his cheekbones. _

_Jim nodded slowly, pursing his lips again. "Yes, in many ways, you are. Your lifestyle is hard, I know, but all wealth is not measured monetarily." _

"_So, if I wanted to give something to God, what do I have to give? We don't have any sheep." _

_The last part could have been a joke, but Sam kept his gaze down and lidded, obviously serious. "It's not what you give that matters, Sam, or what it's worth to God. The only thing that matters is what it's worth to you."_

"_Huh?" Sam asked, raising his head and turning a puzzled face in the man's direction._

_Jim thought for a way to explain. "Well, it's like this," he said. "A rich man can give away all of his money, but money means nothing to him. So even though he gave everything, his sacrifice is worthless. He who has only one penny, and gives that penny, will feel the loss of it more than he who gives a fortune." He paused, realizing he was probably reverting to sermon speak. Sometimes Sam got his mind working in ways that made Jim forget the boy was only ten. "I don't think it's what we have to give that God notices," he finally said. "It's what we have that we **wouldn't** give. That one thing that we wouldn't give, is probably the most valuable thing we have. That one thing you hold dearest in your heart, also holds a place in God's."_

"_What thing is that?" Sam asked, and Jim laughed. Leave it to Sam to expect a textbook answer._

"_That's for you to decide, Sam. Only you and God will know."_

"_When will I know?"_

"_When you're called upon to make the sacrifice, the lamb will show itself, Sam." _

"_And if I make it?"_

"_God will smile."_

**break**

Sam's long finger trembled against the cold steel of the Colt's trigger. He tilted his head slightly to the side, assuring that his aim would be true, despite having one eye swollen shut, and breathed in harshly against clenched teeth.

"I can't hold onto it much longer…You shoot me in the heart son…SAMMMMYYYYYY!"

His father's voice roared like an approaching tornado through the tiny cabin, barely deadened by the bare, splintered wood of the walls. It was backed by the steady, walking bass of his own raspy breathing, almost as loud in his head as the thud, thud, thud of his heart pounding in his ears, each beat sending waves of agony through his battered skull. The rising tide of tumultuous sound rolled over him until even his own inner voice was drowned out, rendering him almost helpless in the face of the overwhelming decision.

But one sound, weak, thready, and too quiet, wafted over the din.

"Sam…no."

The pain lacing the words, and the way they seemed to take every ounce of his brother's strength, magnified them a thousand fold against Sam's internal sounding board of reason. Dean was his brother. The ties of blood and years of seeking shelter beneath that all-powerful, big brother net, could turn a whisper into a roar.

Every ounce of strength that Dean forced into producing that waning, dying, plea, settled over Sam like a bomb blanket, and his hands stilled in their trembling. He settled the hammer back out of the cocked position, lowered the gun, and waited for the Demon to make its next move.

It didn't miss the opportunity. Within seconds, John's head snapped back violently, and a thick, black cloud of pure evil spewed from his gaping mouth. Sam cringed inwardly as his father's guttural cry of violated anger shook him to the core.

The room spun around him as the atmosphere thick with the Demon's essence. Sam kept the gun half-raised, but he knew it would be useless against a non-corporeal entity. The cloud rolled up along the ceiling and gained velocity as it felt its way into every corner of the room, searching for an out.

It found none, and Sam knew why. It had taken over ten pounds of salt to completely seal the cabin. Over five pounds of that had been poured through the cracks in the wooden floor, completely covering the foundation beneath, and the sigils painted across the ceiling prevented an upward exit.

As John slumped back onto the floor, exhausted, Sam realized with rising horror that their effort to keep the Demon from entering the cabin had now trapped them inside with it. Holy water may have had no effect on the bastard, but salt was apparently older than the Christian God, and the monster in the room couldn't cross it. Useful information for the future, Sam knew, but hardly helpful when the future was likely to consist of what he could only hope was a very quick death at the hands of the Demon.

Sam shook his head to chase away the defeatist thoughts that had started to creep in. His own defeat didn't really matter to him. Hell, even Dad's defeat, Sam could take, but Dean… He knew Dean would never give up, and Sam wasn't about to make the decision for him. Desperate, the youngest Winchester's eyes darted to the window. He needed to get to the sill. If he could just break the salt line, the Demon could leave, and he could still have time to save his brother.

But there was no opening between himself and the window. The Demon's essence had formed a thick wall of impermeable blackness over every surface of the room. They were completely boxed in.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, and allowing the power of his own fear drive him forward as Dean's breath became ragged and uneven behind, Sam raised the gun. He knew there was only one bullet left. It could very well be the only thing ever made that could kill this evil. Once it was gone, that was it. But if he didn't try this, they wouldn't have much time left to regret the loss.

He tilted his head, jutted his jaw out defiantly, and pulled the trigger, tensing his muscles to leap through the hole he hoped would form in its wake.

The bullet passed through without making a ripple and embedded itself deeply in one of the thick log walls.

The disappointment he felt was beyond emotionally draining. It was as if every quivering muscle fiber in his lean body suddenly blanched to the consistency of cooked pasta. The air whooshed from his lungs as the gun fell from his limp fingers and clattered to the floor.

"No…oh, God, no…" Their last hope for victory in this battle was wasted, and if there was any chance at all of the Winchesters living to fight another battle, it was up to Sam to find it. The weight of the burden was overpowering.

As the Demon began to swirl frantically around its cage, Sam's knees quaked, and he stumbled backwards. His foot landed with a thick squish and slid out from under him.

He caught himself on one outstretched arm, only to feel his hand slide through a sticky, wet substance. The tang of iron permeated his nostrils, and he realized with sudden horror, that he was covered in blood - Dean's blood. Dean's breath was ragged beside him, wracked with pain and near-sobbing with fear and helplessness.

_Demons prey on the weak. Physical and emotional turmoil make you ripe for demonic possession. _

As Sam watched the Demon frantically search for an escape, he realized exactly what was to come, and no way in hell was he gonna let it happen.

Sam leapt back to his feet, body braced against the rising demonic wind. "No! No way, you son of a bitch! I won't let you have him! Not him!" His mind steeled with purpose and determination.

There was only one way the Demon was going to get out of this cabin and leave any Winchester alive, and that was on two legs. John had a mystical bullet lodged in his leg, and Dean needed to get to a hospital. That only left Sam. He might have walked away from his family once, but he wasn't about to do it again.

Gritting his teeth, Sam assumed a protective stance over his brother's prone body. "You want outta here?" He growled, his one open eye glaring defiantly. "Take me." He nodded his chin toward the floor. "Let them go, and I'm yours. I'll get them to break the salt line, and we'll walk outta here." As the cloud darkened and roiled closer, he felt his resolve begin to crumble, but he maintained his stance, the fear of what was to come choking him despite his brave façade. "Please…" He begged without meaning to. "Take me…"

For a second, the room became perfectly still. Then with a roar that Sam realized, too late, was his own voice screaming, the world went red. A thousand railroad spikes were driven into him simultaneously, and his raw throat collapsed as every ounce of breath ripped through the constriction. His body was paralyzed with the pain, and he couldn't draw against his clenched ribs to continue the scream, but his mouth hung open, screaming mutely as he fell with a thud to the floor.

Dean opened his eyes weakly as the sound of Sam's body collapsing shook him from his pained stupor. Through a haze of disorientation, he found himself face to face with his brother, and the sight of Sam's blank eyes, wide open and dripping blood, made his heart clench.

"S-Sammy," he whispered weakly, but got no response. Reaching out one trembling hand, he touched his baby brother's face, hoping for any response at all, some sign of life, but Sam did not even blink. "No…"

_--_

_Oh never have I seen such love, in any other eyes. Into thy hands, I commit my spirit, he prayed, and then he died. –**Watch the Lamb**, Ray Boltz_

TBC

Um, well, this is my first Sam story. I would very much like to know if I did the boys, and especially Sam, justice. Reviews would be huggled and snuggled, of course.

Oh, and does anyone think I need a beta reader? And where do I get one?


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I guess I should mention that this is rated T for Language and violence. I don't plan on dropping any f-bombs, but I will tell you if I do. Everything else is pretty much up for grabs, though. Boys will be boys, after all. Thanks to my lovely reviewers. I'm not getting alerts, and I don't really want to post this one without the alerts working, since I got more than twice as many alerts on the first chapter than actual reviews, but I don't want to sit on this forever. I got more chapters to write. All disclaimers are in chapter one.

**Watching the Lamb**

Ripa J. Sattva

**Chapter Two**

_Give me a love so fragile, a heart so tender and kind…Let love be the light they find.—**Love So Fragile, **Gene Schmidt._

The air was thick, heavy with blood-iron and smoke, and Dean was so very tired. He wanted nothing more than to lie back, let the fog that tickled the periphery of his vision fall over him like a blanket, and just sleep. He wanted it to be over, the chasing, the running, the bleeding the death, all of it over.

But not like this. The end of their twenty-three year quest for vengeance and justice could not also be the end of Sam. There was no part of Dean Winchester that would ever let that be okay.

"Sammy," he whispered weakly, his thumb smearing through one bloody trail on his brother's face as he stretched painfully forward to search for a pulse. "Please…"

Dean couldn't remember the last time in his twenty-seven years that he'd begged for anything; never once had he said, "Don't go," never once pleaded, "Stay." In Palo Alto, dropping Sam at his apartment and his normal life, the words had been right there on his tongue, but they'd never been spoken. And in Chicago, the pleas had been bubbling up in his chest until he'd felt like the release valve on a pressure cooker, but they'd only made it as far as his eyes. Yet tonight, he'd already been reduced to begging twice, and if that was the only thing he could do, then he'd do it with his last breath. This was not how it was going to end.

He'd die for Sam, and he was pretty sure his brother knew that. In fact, Sam had laid into him a number of times already for apparently being willing to die for any Mary Sue who happened on the scene of a near-tragedy with a plausible claim of naiveté. But did Sam know that Dean would beg for him? Did he know that, for Sam, Dean would give up every last ounce of honor and pride to plea brokenly for him to just be okay? He would, if that was all he had to give. Because Sam wasn't some Mary Sue. He was Dean's brother.

"Please, please, please," he found himself muttering on the verge of hysteria as his trembling fingers pressed into the soft skin beneath Sam's jaw. The mutters became broken as his heart leapt in echo to the thrumming pulse he found there. Dean let his head loll back onto his shoulder as relief and exhaustion settled heavily over him. Sam was alive. It wasn't much, but it was something. "Sammy…" he whispered again. "S-Sam…" But still there was no answer.

**break**

Sam was confused. Every ounce of his strength was drained, and if not for the crushing full-body grip the Demon seemed to be squeezing him with, he would have thought he was dead.

"**What's the matter, Sam? Not enjoying the show?"**

"What? My brother bleeding to death, while I lie here, paralyzed, with a demon in my head? No, actually, not liking that show at all. What are you waiting for? I gave you what you wanted, now leave them alone."

"**Oh, Sam, you underestimate me greatly, I'm afraid. I am eternal, older than your God, older than your pathetic concept of time. I have forever, and now, I think I'm right where I want to be. I think I could rest quite well in this skin. Yes, the anguish in this body, the broken pleading of your heart, it is the song I shall use to sing myself to sleep. Your suffering is my lullaby, your agony my blanket."**

"Sleep? You've gotta be kidding me, right? That wasn't the deal. You're supposed to take me and leave. Don't you have some evil plan to fulfill, some raping and pillaging out there somewhere with your name on them?"

"**Been there, done that. Tired now. Time to rest. Don't believe me? Ask Daddy, he knows. He knows my habits, my patterns, when I sow, when I reap, when I wake…and when I sleep. To everything a season, little one."**

"So, he was right? You do hibernate."

"**Oh yes. I enjoy my slumber immensely, almost as much as the feast of blood I take before, and the crimson wine that inebriates me after."**

Sam seethed with rage as the gravity of the Demon's revelation settled into the recesses of his mind. "Mom? Jess? All those other innocent people? Just fodder to sustain you while you sleep?"

"**Well, innocence is relative, but yes, we're all just links in a great cosmic food chain of sorts. The big fish eat the little fish, and there are no bigger fishes than I, not on this world."**

"And me? Is that all I am to you? A snack?"

"**No, Samuel, you are so much more. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. You and I are going to be the very best of friends, I think."**

"Like hell!"

**A dry, breathless laugh. "Oh yes, it will be that. But you'll come to see the truth and accept it for what it is. Until then, I sleep."**

"Wait, so…you're letting me go?"

"**Now, that _would_ be a neat trick, considering you shot me with a friggin' bullet that's sapped half my energy. I'd say that's definitely not part of the deal." Another dry laugh and a beat. "Where do you think I go to sleep? Have you never heard of hiding in plain sight? You, young Sam, are my cave. I will sleep, and my sleeping dreams will be your waking nightmares."**

"But…"

"**Enjoy the show, my child, but be careful. I sleep with my eyes half open."**

---

Sam's eyes were open, too, fixed and empty, but his mind was not allowed to sleep.

**break**

Dean's hand worked stiffly around to the front of his jacket. His sticky fingers felt numb and much too thick. It was as though an elastic band had been fastened around his throat, causing his head to swim from lack of oxygen while the rest of his body swelled and drowned in pooling blood. He could barely make out the cool plastic of the phone in his pocket, but he knew he'd found it when it slipped from his weak grip and clattered onto the wooden floor.

Dean stifled a groan as he attempted to roll into a position that would allow him to reach the fallen cell phone, and as he did, the blood in his throat pooled momentarily behind his larynx and sparked a fit of wet coughing that he felt sure would tear him apart. Fighting past the quaking of his broken body and the encroaching darkness, he tried desperately to open the phone with one hand. The other hand was clenched tightly around his rib cage, lending some stability to the gaping wounds slashed across his torso. As the phone slid from his wet fingers a second time, he almost sobbed with desperation.

On the verge of breaking, panic stealing what little air he had left, he felt a warm brush against his back that radiated strength and reassurance. He was pulled back into his father's strong arms, his upper body braced against John's chest, and a larger hand closed over his, taking the phone from his trembling fingers. In one fluid motion, John flipped the phone open and pulled Dean backwards, sliding them both across the floor and away from Sam's prone body.

Dean protested with a weak shake of his head as another coughing fit gripped him. "Sam..."

"I know, Dean," John placated, grimacing against the pain that shot up his femur as he dragged the two of them back into the corner of the room. Hitting the wall, he stretched out his hand to pick up the Colt that had slid across the floor in the turmoil, and brought it up, bracing it against Dean's chest protectively with one hand as he dialed the phone with the other.

Dean continued to struggle in his efforts to get back to his brother, but his limbs were so heavy, and it had been so long since he'd been held, so long since he'd felt this safe. His head lolled against his father's chest, much the way his eyes seem to be rolling in their sockets, loose and unfocused.

"There's been an accident," John said into the phone, "My sons and I, a hunting accident." There was a brief pause as he listened to the dispatcher. "I-I don't really know." It was true. He'd been pretty out of it when the boys had brought him there, and he really had no idea where they were. "There's a GPS chip in this phone," he said. "I'm going to leave it on. Just please hurry," he said, his voice becoming a desperate whisper.

John laid the phone down gently beside him and lifted the gun up to his eyeline, not wanting to lower his eyes enough to let Sam out of his sight for a second. He groaned with frustration as he spun the chamber futilely, and let the gun clatter to the floor. "Dammit!" He cursed. "When the hell did he use the last bullet? Christ, Sam, what did you do?" The shock of the Demon exiting his body had left John nearly unconscious, and he'd only managed to come around in time to see the damned thing descend upon his baby boy.

Now, all he could do was gaze helplessly across the room at the wide-open, yellow-rimmed eyes of his youngest son, while he curled himself protectively around the eldest. He held a thread of hope that help would arrive in time for Dean, but as he met Sam's empty glare, he wondered if there was anything left of his youngest to save at all.

**break**

"_But Dean, I really gotta go…" Sam blinked up at his brother imploringly, his round eleven-year-old cheeks only making his dark, soulful eyes seem that much softer and bigger. He squirmed in the seat of the car, crossing and uncrossing his legs and bouncing up and down distractedly._

_Dean laughed under his breath. "Aww, wittle Sammy's gotta pee. Poor Sammy shoulda wore his Pull-Ups in case he had a wittle accident." _

"_Dean!"_

"_Sammy!" Dean sniggered back. "Suck it up, little man. Dad's gonna be back soon." His face softened momentarily as he seemed to take in his brother's desperate situation. "No, Sammy," he said shortly, "Dad said we gotta stay in the car 'til he comes back. We're not supposed to open the door for anything."_

"_But he was supposed to be back an hour ago," Sam protested, "And I can't hold it anymore. I'm really trying, but I can't." He wrapped his arms around his stomach and rocked back and forth. The lines in his face alternated between grim determination and helpless agony. _

"_Well, I told you not to drink all that Dr. Pepper before we left, Forrest," Dean returned, trying to sound unsympathetic with only passable success. Truth be told, he'd probably had a little too much soda himself, and he was pretty sure his back teeth were floating. Still, Dad had said… _

"_I know, you don't have to remind me. But Dad never lets us have soda, and Caleb said we could have as much as we wanted…"_

"_Didn't mean you had to empty the case. Geez, kid, learn a little self-control. You're future girlfriends will appreciate it," Dean sniggered, raising his eyebrows lewdly._

"_Huh?" Sam asked. "You're fifteen, Dean. You've had what? Three real girlfriends? You are so not an expert."_

_Dean leaned back in the seat, all confidence and perceived maturity. "It's not quantity, little brother, it's quality."_

"_Uh, Dean, your attraction to Sarah Keegan was all a QUANTITY thing," Sam smirked, cupping his hands in front of his chest in what Dean thought was a pretty fair approximation of Sarah's two finer points. _

_Dean tossed a wadded up hamburger wrapper at his brother's head. "So, you were eyeing up my girlfriend, ya little perv." He grinned proudly. "That's my boy."_

"_Takes a perv to know a perv," Sam snickered back._

"_Well, just hold that thought," Dean instructed, noting the way Sam still held one arm across his stomach. He leaned closer to Sam, the leather upholstery squeaking beneath his shifting weight. He placed his mouth as near to his brother's ear as he could, as though there were anything within a hundred yards besides crickets to hear him anyway. "Whatever you do…" _

"_Yeah…" Sam whispered expectantly._

"_Do NOT think about…"_

"_What?"_

"_Raindrops, waterfalls, dripping faucets…"_

"_Dean!"_

"_Flushing toilets, fire hydrants…"_

"_Stop it, jerk!"_

"_Make me, bitch! Babbling brooks…" Dean paused, realizing with dismay that Sam was no longer arguing. A Sam that wasn't arguing was a Sam in dire straits, indeed. Dean huffed forlornly, long lashes sweeping over his cheeks as he attempted, to no avail, to look away from the dreaded puppy dog eyes. _

_Sammy glanced up at him, round eyes moist to the point of bursting, and black with determination. _

_Dean bit his lip. "Sam, there's a rawhead out there. He eats kids like, uh, like you, remember? And Dad made me promise."_

_---_

Sam tried to shut his eyes and shake himself from the memory that was playing out across his retinas, but found himself paralyzed against the Demon's wishes. He didn't want to watch, not this. He knew all too well what came next. He remembered every detail of that night with startling clarity—the way he'd flung the door open and raced for the nearest clump of bushes, ignoring his brother's protests, the way he'd only barely managed to get his pants zipped back up when the rawhead charged out of the treeline, and worst of all, the way Dean's eyes had been so pale and glassy after he'd jumped in front of the monster to save him.

Dad had been hot on it's heels and took the thing out with a blast from his taser gun, but not before Dean had suffered a broken collar bone and a concussion on Sam's behalf.

Sam struggled against whatever finger the Demon was using to pry apart the pages of his scrapbook mind, but to no avail. All he managed to shake loose was one pink tear that rolled down his slack face to the floor as his father watched in horror.

---

"_Sam no!" Dean yelled, pausing to grab the .45 from under the front seat before following his little brother out the door. "Sam, stop!"_

"_I'm sorry, Dean," Sam called from behind the bushes. "I can't hold it anymore. It'll only take a second."_

_Dean could tell from the sounds coming from behind the rustling leaves that Sam had business well in hand, and as he had no desire to get in the line of fire, he bit his lip and gazed around cautiously, wondering if there might be enough time for him to do the same._

_He turned back toward the treeline a second too late to raise the gun into position, as the raw stormed through the brush and into the clearing._

_---_

"You getting off on this?" Sam asked.

No answer.

"So this is your idea of a nightmare? Making me watch my worst memories over and over again?"

Nothing.

"Well, then. Watch this."

---

"_Dean! Look out!" Sam shouted. Sam was small but, like his brother, he was lean, lithe, and packed solid with well-trained muscle. He leapt from his fresh air outhouse, pants still unbuttoned and pushed his brother to the ground just as their father broke from the forest and fired. _

_The raw tried to follow Dean's progress to the ground, but Sam stayed between it and his brother. It had one long, clawed hand on the back of Sam's neck when the taser hit home._

---

**The Demon laughed.**

---

John watched in horror as Sam's body suddenly twitched to life in the middle of the floor. What started as a faint tremor in his long arms and legs, quickly escalated into full-blown convulsions. Sam's back arched up off the floor while his hands and feet flopped spastically around him. His lips were flecked with pink foam as his eyes began to flutter and roll back in his head. The air, already pungent with the tang of blood took on a charge of ozone as invisible current surged through him.

"Sammy…" John whispered, desperate and conflicted. He knew the Demon was possessing his boy, but it was still his boy, his Sammy, writhing in agony on the floor. And Sammy needed him.

John looked down at his oldest son indecisively. Dean had already fallen unconscious, and his breathing was raspy and thready, but he seemed to be holding his own. He glanced back to Sam. God what was he doing? He rolled Dean's body down carefully to the floor and placed his son between himself and the wall. With Dean protected as best he could manage, John cautiously dragged himself toward Sam's convulsing body, uncertain what he could do but unwilling to sit by and do nothing. "Leave him alone, you bastard!"

Before he got within an arm's reach, John watched as Sam's chest heaved violently up toward the ceiling, the air reeking of burnt flesh around them, and fell completely lax.

One more strong drag across the floor, and John was by Sam's side, the yellow rings around his son's hazel eyes glowing obscenely back at him, almost appearing to laugh at his anguish. He reached out a hand to search for a pulse, but knew in his heart that he was too late.

TBC

Hmm, so, I think the last chapter went over pretty well. I'm a little perplexed, though as to why people would put a story on alert without leaving a review. Perhaps I shall create a wall of shame…Idle threat? We shall have to wait and see...

**Reviews are Love**


	3. Chapter 3

**Watching the Lamb**

Ripa J. Sattva

**Chapter 3 **

_When the line between brothers and justice have changed, you do what you gotta, cuz you can't walk away… **Blood Money**, Jon Bon Jovi_

John's hand stretched forward tentatively to where Sam lay, body lax, eyes hooded and fixed on the ceiling. The atmosphere twanged with an invisible charge that gave almost palpable thickness to the ozone and burned flesh stench that clawed its way down his throat and caked his trembling vocal chords. He swallowed hard against the mucus coated scream of panic that gurgled in his trachea. Try as he might to quell the trembling of his fingers, there was no controlling the nervous energy that wavered within.

Truth be told, he'd never been so afraid in his life.

That was blood on Sam's cheek, blood in his hair, blood ringing his eyes. It was Winchester blood - his, and Dean's, and Sam's - their connection, their drive. John couldn't break the connection, couldn't ignore the pain. He had to know if the blood still flowed.

His fingers hovered over his youngest son's throat, feeling the deceptive heat that rose from his rapidly cooling skin, and let himself believe that it was the heat of life. He knew better.

Choking back a retch and a cry of revulsion, John let his fingers finally press into the pulse point of Sam's neck. He waited like a child in a closet during a game of hide-and-seek. The pounding of his own heart and the rasping of his breath was so deceptively loud that he thought he felt what wasn't there. But it wasn't there - no pulse, no breath, no life, no Sam.

"Ah!" He shouted and drew back his hand as if he'd been bitten as a cold charge like lightning through a block of ice sparked off of Sam and shot through his arm.

Sam's eyes shot open. The possessed body arched off the floor, his jaw wrenched violently open as the Demon forced it back to life.

Of course, the Demon needed Sam's body alive. And John knew then, that it never planned to leave. All of this had been just a manipulation to get the Demon what it wanted, and now it had. It had Sam, and it would never let him go.

Was it wrong if the last wish John held for his youngest son was for a swift and painless death?

Crabwalking backwards awkwardly, John didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He should've known the Demon wouldn't let Sam die. The bastard needed him, and he wasn't about to let him go that easily. Sam's chest began to shake as a vile evil belly-laugh rolled up out of his raped throat.

"Sorry Sammy," he whispered. "I'll find a way to fix this, I promise."

That's when the door slammed open. Before John could register what was happening, a flurry of activity - heavy, clomping boots, shouts and desperate half-organization - swirled around him. Only then did he see the strobe-flashing of the ambulance lights in the window and at the door. The heavy, hurried feet of the medical personnel scattered the salt to the all corners of the room, and John sobbed against restraining hands. Too little, too late. The bastard had his baby, his baby boy.

John felt unsteady as though he was caught in a snow globe that had been shaken violently and left on a sturdy mantelpiece to settle. Somewhere under this false blanket of snow, his whole world had been covered and smothered, and whatever lay above it was constantly moving, shifting, and refracting – the blue toilet water of his new crap reality.

His brain thought he was drowning. His brain was probably right. It would be so easy to just lie there in the false security of the lull, but he knew it was only the eye of the storm. The trailing edge was bearing down upon them fast, and its lightning-bearing Zeus was lying in wait for his army of chaos to descend – wearing Sam like an armor with no Achilles heel.

His head fell with a thud, face first into the floor. He pressed his forehead hard into the unfinished wood, as though the grinding of raw splinters into his bare flesh could somehow wear away the agony of loss that coursed through his every fiber. "No, no, no," he sobbed, head rocking back and forth in desperate denial. "Not my babies. Not my boys."

He lay there boneless and heavy for seconds that stretched into infinitely long minutes, retching and rocking - being as weak as he'd forced his children to be strong, because without them, he had no need for strength.

John watched as Sam was rolled onto a backboard, lifted onto a stretcher, and taken away. His head already swimming from blood loss, he let the blackness all but consume him before he realized that he hadn't seen them take Dean yet.

"Dean," he rasped. The faint whisper of his own voice seemed to push back the sizzle of encroaching unconsciousness that roared in his ears. "Dean?" What was taking them so long? They needed to get him in the ambulance. He needed a hospital. Why weren't they moving him? "Dean?" He cried, desperate.

"This one's not breathing…"

"DEAN!"

**break**

_"IIIIIIIII'm Henry the Eighth I am, Henry the Eighth I am, I am. I got married to the widow next door…" Dean was cut off by an involuntary hiss as the needle pierced his flesh for what seemed to be the thousandth time since their father had begun the stitching up process._

_"Does that really work?" Sam asked, his fourteen-year-old voice cracking._

_"Damn, Samantha, is your voice ever gonna stop changing? Pick an octave already," Dean snarked weakly, though he knew it was emotion in Sam's voice and not adolescent hormones._

_"Well does it?" Sam asked again, his hand trembling as he handed his father another gauze pad to dab away the blood from the gaping wound the black dog had laid across his brother's ribs. He winced and looked away as he saw Dean's stomach muscles tighten protectively under the meticulous ministrations._

_"Not as good as a nice hit of Lidocain," Dean grunted, eyes starting to roll shut._

_"Stay with me, kiddo," John soothed. "I know it hurts, but you took a pretty good knock to the head, and I can't let you sleep."_

_"Yeah, because God knows he deserves to suffer through this awake because you also can't remember to restock the numbing medicine in the first aid kit," Sam snapped._

_"Sam…" Dean sighed, letting his head roll weakly toward his brother to deliver the most pathetic reprimand Sam had ever seen him muster._

_The youngest Winchester felt a small twang of guilt. He knew it bothered Dean when Sam and John picked at each other, but sometimes..., well sometimes he just couldn't help it. He hated seeing his brother suffer. "Well, he's the one with the wallet full of fake credit cards. He's the one with all the field medical training. He's the one with all the pharmaceutical connections. Oh, and let's not forget, he's our friggin' father, and he's supposed to be planning for these emergencies so we don't have to stitch each other up in the first place!" Sam retorted. He clenched his jaw and pushed the next gauze pad roughly into his father's outstretched hand with a glare._

_"I didn't know we were out," John said absently, his mind focused on the task at hand._

_"So you used the last of it, and either didn't bother to write it down or were too drunk to notice…"_

_"Sam!" Dean barked and then hissed, his muscles clenching against the sudden movement. After he caught his breath, he managed to continue. "It's my fault. I used the last of it when I numbed your hand so I could fix your dislocated finger last month. I forgot to tell Dad," he admitted weakly, blinking his eyes against the spinning of the room._

_Sam deflated quickly, face reddening._

_"Sam…" John said distractedly, wiggling the fingers on his outstretched hand as his youngest failed to hand him the swab._

_"Sorry," Sam said softly as he thrust the gauze into his father's calloused grasp, and they all knew the statement was meant to absolve more than just the momentary lapse of concentration. It was just…He didn't think he could go on watching his brother suffer like this forever. The youngest Winchester took a deep breath and let it out with a slight shudder. "So…IIIIII'm Henry the Eighth I am…"_

_---**break**---_

_"Henry the Eighth I am, I am…"_

_"Dean!" Sam growled, pressing the pillow over his seventeen-year-old face. "I don't want to talk about it. Just let me sleep!"_

_"I got married to the widow next door. She'd been married seven times before…"_

_"Dean!"_

_"And every one was a Henry. HENRY!"_

_"Ahhh," Sam grunted in frustration, but he brought the pillow down with a soft whump on the mattress beside him. "That movie was such a chick flick, you know that," he said with a false tone of reprimand, though Dean could already sense the concession in his posture. "You couldn't sing Metallica or something?"_

_Dean slouched back against his own bed from his seated position on the floor between the two and shrugged. "Well, now, that would defeat the purpose. I'm trying to keep you awake not sing you a lullaby."_

_"I hardly think 'Enter Sandman' would qualify as a lullaby," Sam surmised._

_"And I know you don't think you can change the subject that easily, little brother," Dean retorted. He rubbed his hand tiredly over his face. "Now spill. What was in the mail today that has you all on edge?"_

_Sitting up stiffly with an exasperated huff, Sam flicked on the lamp between the two beds and fished a letter from the nightstand. He let his fingers brush over the lettering reverently, Stanford University, Registrar, glanced up to meet his brother's eyes and sent it pinwheeling across the distance between them. He waited just long enough for Dean to pick it up and look at the return address before he rolled over on his bed to face the wall._

_Sam had always prided himself on being able to pick apart any argument, rebut every detail, and present a convincing case for anything. He hated himself just a little that now, when it came to doing the hardest thing he'd ever had to do in his life, he was at a complete loss for words._

_He listened to the envelope open, the expensive letter paper unfold, and the slight rustle it made as Dean read it. Then he heard the letter crease, the drawer open, and the envelope slide nearly-silently inside before the compartment was shut tight again. There were several long moments of silence in which Sam could feel Dean's eyes boring into the back of his head. Then, Dean's bed creaked a little as he used it to lever himself up, and there was only the soft padding of his bare feet on the cheap linoleum as he walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind him with a click._

_The water came on, even if the light never did, and Sam wished the water pressure was better in that old house, because the spray wasn't nearly loud enough._

_He turned his head back into the wall. "IIIIII'm Henry the Eighth, I am…" he sang through his constricted throat. Right then, he would've done anything to lessen the pain._

**break**

_"IIIIIIIII'm Henry the Eighth I am…" God it hurts_.

"What are these, electrical burns?" The voice was unfamiliar, but from the brightness around him, the stench of antiseptic, and the scrape of stainless steel, Sam knew it must be someone in the medical profession. He was only starting to get back some of his senses when they rolled him out of the ambulance, popped the gurney up into its highest elevation, and locked it in place. Things were still kinda swirling around him. The only things he was truly aware of were the pain, and the Demon yawning away in the back of his mind. Bastard.

"I don't know," a second voice answered. "No one at the scene was really coherent. Haven't really been able to figure out what happened to this kid, yet. Heartbeat's irregular. Fits with electrocution."

There was a flash of light in his eyes from which Sam could not recoil or blink in opposition.

"_Ow! Son of a bitch_!" Sam grunted internally, his anger boiling as the Demon rested heavily against his wall of perception. "_Henry the Eighth I am, I am_," Sam shouted at the top of his inner voice. " _No way in hell you're sleeping through this!... I got married to the widow next door…_"

"**You don't really think that will work on me**…"

"_You're not sleeping are you_?"

"**Only because I find your suffering so amusing, Samuel**."

"_Yeah, whatever you gotta tell yourself…She'd been married seven times before, and every one was a Henry_…"

"**Samuel**…"

"_HENRY_!"

"**What exactly do you hope to accomplish with this childish behavior, little one**?"

"_You wanted my body, you got it, but if you're gonna keep me trapped here, you gotta at least let me know if it was worth it. You gotta let me know if they're okay_…"

"**Have they ever been okay**?"

"_You know what I mean…I'm her eighth old man, I'm Henry_…"

**A breathy sigh. "And if they're not**…"

"_Just show me_."

"**Very well**."

As if a switch had been thrown the room came into startling focus. Sam could feel someone applying bandages to his arms, whispers about electrical burns and erratic heartbeats. He found himself in a semi-seated position, the head of the bed raised slightly. Still, there was very little going on around him besides some whirring and whining of machines and monitors. All of the activity in the room seemed to be across from him, behind a dividing curtain.

His ears focused on the frantic voices that emanated from the other cubicle. There seemed to be some bright lights in use over there. At least, he felt the urge to squint against the strange glare that reflected from the ceiling above.

An orderly appeared from behind the curtain with a clear plastic bag in hand. As she passed Sam's bed, he managed to make out some of the items within it. A watch. A ring. A phone. A wallet. A necklace.

Sam's heart monitor jumped slightly as realization sunk in. _Dean_!

He was suddenly aware of a piercing wail and the high-pitched whine of an electrical charge building.

"Clear!"

More shrieking.

"Still no pulse! Pupils are unequal and unresponsive. Probably threw a clot somewhere. Shit! What'd they do to this kid, try to carve him with a dull weed whacker?"

"Clear!"

An anticipatory silence, and more shrieking.

"Still nothing. It's been fifteen minutes since he came in, and he hasn't had one unassisted heartbeat, people. I think we need to call this one…"

"_No_!" There was a strange wavering shadow on the ceiling that hadn't been there earlier, and when another intern threw open the curtain momentarily, Sam could see an entity hovering over his brother's body. Dean's exposed, bloody chest seemed to be pressed flat by the weight of the reaper as it descended on him. "_Get away from him!... I know you can hear me, jackass! Do something!_!"

**The Demon laughed. "Now why would I do that, young Samuel**?"

"_He's dying! You don't want him! You want me_!"

"**Don't be so sure. He's been a pain in my ass for a very long time now**."

"_And I'm gonna be a pain in your ass for eternity, I swear to God, if you let him die_…"

"**You'll what? Sing me to death? You and your _God_**?"

"_Please…I'll do anything. I'll give you anything. Just don't let him die." Please tell me I didn't do this for nothing_…

"**And what would you have to offer me? I already have your body**."

"_My soul then_…"

**Another dry laugh. "And what makes you think that's yours to give? How do you k now it's not mine already?" A beat. "Still, I would like to get a little shuteye**."

"_Anything_…" Sam could feel the Demon's attention shift toward the cubicle where Dean lay. Again, he was aware of the inordinate amount of light they seemed to be using in there as even the Demon seemed to cringe away.

"**This would be so much easier if I didn't have to look at THAT… Perhaps there is something." A thoughtful silence. "Very well.**"

The reaper lifted suddenly, its ghastly features twisted in anger and repulsion as it turned toward them in protest, then with a squeal it ascended and was gone.

"We've got a pulse! Hell, we've got a whole lot more than that! What the f…?!"

Dean lurched up in the bed, causing several attendants to fall back in alarm as wires and leads jerked from their sockets.

Sam felt his brother's deep hazel eyes well with wonder and confusion as they locked his gaze from across the room.

It was the last thing he saw before everything went black.

TBC

_Would I have traded your life for my own life? Would I have paid, your debts in your place?---**Blood Money**, Jon Bon Jovi_

Thanks so much for all the kind notes so far. I tried to get back to everyone individually, but as you know, the site has not been cooperating. I just wanted to say to "she whose name begins with '**maa**' and ends with '**psut**'" that I got your PM, and I really appreciated the comments and the offer. I tried to reply to you, but you have a block on PM's. Just thank you so much, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

P.S. Thanks so much to D.F. for the tip. It worked!!! Yay.

Ripa


	4. Chapter 4

A/N1: Before you read, RUN DON'T WALK to my profile page and check out the artwork I made for this story. It's a little spoilery for the story, but only if you're me, and you know what's going to happen. Evil Grin. Honestly, I worked longer on the art than on the actual chapter, so I would love to know what you think.

A/N2: Thanks to all my lovely reviewers, the comments mean so much. Not much Sam in this chapter, I'm afraid. I feel like Dean hasn't had much opportunity to play yet in this story, and I couldn't leave the pretty on the sidelines, so here we go.

**Watching the Lamb**

Ripa J. Sattva

**Chapter Four**

_Could ye not watch with me one hour? **Luke** **22:46**_

"No! No disrespect, sir, but HELL no!" Dean leaned as far forward as he possibly could and ran his hands over the back of his head roughly as he tucked his chin into his chest and away from his father's gaze. He'd never been any good at saying "no" to John, but it had to be said, nonetheless. He felt like a caged tiger, the need to stalk back and forth across the room was nearly strong enough to win out, but his entire right side felt like he was on fire, so he settled for shaking his head in denial and growling deep in the back of his throat.

His chest was one giant knot of tension that almost stifled the words in his throat. The suffocating choke around him was only partially due to the nearly-healed gashes the Demon had made in his flesh. The rest, he knew, was the lingering reminder of the grasp the bastard still had on his heart, his Sammy.

"Dean," John said, trying to keep his tone steady, though it killed him speak the words, "he wouldn't want to live like this. He'd want us to finish it."

Dean shook his head, still not looking up. "No! He won't survive an exorcism, you said it yourself."

"He might not survive, regardless," John's voice was determined but not demanding, not anymore. He was in no position to make demands. The last one he'd made had gotten him stripped of his stripes in the eyes of his son and made Dean a defector.

"_You shoot me in the heart…"_

"_Sam, no..."_

"Dean, look what it's done to him."

Dean couldn't look.

"He gave himself to it, and now it's torturing him from the inside. It has everything it needs in there, all of him, and it knows how to use it. It electrocuted him for God's sake. His heart only beats because the son of a bitch won't let it stop. Hell, the quacks in this place got him hopped up on enough meds to jump start Jell-O just so blood flows to his other organs and keeps the rest from failing."

"But he's alive! That's all that matters! As long as he gets the medication, and doesn't try to do any PT, which I'm guessing ain't really a problem, he could get better," Dean insisted, hands fisting in the loose-fitting jeans he'd donned after being released that morning.

"It took his eyes!" John shouted, impatience finally winning over his need for self-control.

Dean winced noticeably and turned away from his father's glare to face his brother. That, right there, that was the hardest thing in all of this for Dean to take, and he was pretty sure that's what the Demon had in mind by doing it. Dean loved Sam's eyes. From the first time he'd seen his little brother, when only half his little head had peeked out from beneath blanket he'd been wrapped in, Dean had known Sam, known him better maybe, than he'd ever known himself. He was pretty sure that whoever had coined the phrase, "windows to the soul," had been looking in Sam's eyes when he'd said it.

Of course people, mostly chicks, and priests, and dudes with no business even looking, had told Dean the same thing about his own eyes, but Dean was inclined to disagree. Then again, he barely looked himself in the eye, ever. He shaved seated on the back of the toilet and looking at the floor, brushed his teeth the same way, fixed his hair with just a casual glance in the mirror. But he couldn't _not_ look at Sam's eyes, at least, not until Sam looked back, really looked, and tried to see Dean.

Dean hated the Demon almost as much for Sam's eyes as he did for Mary. The eyes that gazed up at the ceiling, half-covered by the lax eyelids were not Sam's. Sam's eyes were bright, sometimes livid with wonder, curiosity, even rage, but rage that stemmed from caring, rage that burned from living and wanting more from life, rage that sparked from passion. Sam's eyes were intense with yearning and want, belief in what was right, and hope that what was wrong could be undone. Sam's eyes sparkled, they drank, and they ate of life.

These eyes were red where they should be white, and white, opaque, and dull everywhere else. These eyes did not drink or eat of life; they raped and pillaged it, devoured it and digested slowly in the rancid stomach acid of loveless, hopeless, faithless, broken emptiness. These eyes twisted reality, saw what they wanted, and forced the rest to conform to their vision. These were the eyes of the killer who'd murdered his mother and maybe, his brother.

The doctors couldn't explain it. They hazarded a guess that his corneas had been burned in the electrocution, but they couldn't explain how the scars had suddenly appeared in the triage room of the ER. But then, as Sam had said once, they didn't know the things the Winchesters know.

"Why?" Dean asked, and it occurred to him that it wasn't a question that felt quite right in his mouth. He couldn't actually remember asking it in the recent past, not of his father, anyway. His voice was strangled and low, larynx constricting around the foreign letters like a snake's esophagus around a rat. "It has him. It can do anything it wants, so why this?" He chanced another glimpse of his catatonic baby brother and his glazed features before jerking his eyes away with disgust. "It had you. It didn't do this to you."

John shook his head. "It's hard to say. Maybe it was weakened by bullet, and it needs a chance to recoup. Maybe it's gone back into hibernation…"

"Hibernation?" Dean asked. "I mean, you've mentioned that before, but how do you even know it does that?"

"I didn't," John said blandly, "not for a long time. But I always suspected, because right after…" He cleared his throat around the gorge rising up in it. "After your mother, it just vanished. I mean by the time I got things together enough to go looking for it, there was no trace of it anywhere. Then, last year it started again, and Bobby sent me this." He reached to the nightstand where his journal was lying, stray sheets of paper poking out from between the pages. He pulled one of the loose corners and removed a crinkled newspaper article, holding it out to Dean with downcast eyes.

Dean took the page and unfolded it, a second article slipping from inside the fold of the first. He saw it was from a Lawrence, Kansas paper and dated a few weeks after the fire that had killed his mother. He looked at the headlines with a crease in his brow.

**Local Fireman Institutionalized, Brain Injury Thought to Be Caused by Smoke Inhalation**

"So?" Dean asked.

John nodded to the second article, "Read the other."

Dean glanced at it, noting that it was from the same newspaper but dated only a year ago. He didn't miss the fact that it was from approximately the same time that Dad had left him alone to follow up a lead he had on the thing that killed Mom.

**Fallen Hero Awakens from 22Year Catatonia**

Dean met his father's gaze head on. "This guy was overcome by smoke in _our_ _house_, fighting the fire that the Demon set, and he was completely catatonic for twenty-two years…"

"And he just woke up last year, mumbling something about keeping your enemies closer and good men doing nothing," John finished, returning Dean's look. "I went to talk to him, but his wife said he didn't remember anything, or at least he'd claimed to right up until the day he ate a bullet in his garage."

Dean sat back in the chair, suddenly very heavy and tired. "So you think this guy was possessed by the Demon all those years while it hibernated, and you think that might be what it's doing to Sam?"

"Maybe," John speculated, "Or maybe, like I said, it's just injured from the bullet, and it's recouping, but it does seem to fit the pattern. I went through institutional records for the last hundred years, Dean, and there have been three different cases this century of people remaining catatonic and unresponsive for exactly twenty-two years and then awakening again."

"But it's only been awake for a year. It spends twenty-two years sleeping just to wake up for one? Seems a little hard to believe," he cleared his throat again, "no offense, of course."

"None taken," John assuaged. "I thought it seemed far-fetched, too, but we have to remember that these things are ancient, they've been around for millennia; a couple of decades here and there would be nothing."

Dean nodded, slowly comprehending and accepting. "So what do you think it's waiting for, while it sleeps?"

"I have theories, but I don't know. It could be waiting for some harmonic alignment, or it could be planting seeds, so to speak, and waiting for them to ripen." Both men looked across the room to where Sam stared back at them lifelessly from his bed as they kept their vigil over him, as much for his safety as for the safety of those around him. "Do you really think we ought to discuss this here?"

Dean shrugged absently. "Why not? Don't want it to hear the plans we don't have, yet? I'm pretty sure it knows it's got the upper hand, and it's probably laughing it's ass off in there." It wasn't a lie. Dean was pretty sure the Demon already held all the cards and that they'd be giving it nothing it didn't already know by discussing their theories in front of it. But they weren't here for the Demon. They were here for Sam. And Dean was gonna make damned sure that Sam knew he was fighting for him tooth and nail, because he needed Sam to know, needed to make up for the times he didn't.

"_Dean, tell him I can go to school and still hunt! Dean, stop taking his side! Dean, please!"_

"_If you walk out of this house tonight, don't you ever come back!"_

"_Dean?"_

Dean swallowed hard against the memory, as if all the things he'd wanted to say back then had suddenly roiled up into his throat in retribution for being stifled. He'd wanted to support Sam. He'd seen the desperation in his brother's eyes, the need for validation and acceptance, but Dean hadn't stood up for Sam. Despite what Sam had always thought about Dean taking John's side, what it had really boiled down to was Dean just not being able to let Sam go. Sam didn't know that the closest Dean had ever come to supporting Sam and letting him go was not saying the million and one things that were on the tip of his tongue that night that had all meant "Stay."

Dean stole a sideways glance at his brother and hoped, if there was still such a thing as hope, that Sam knew he was standing up for him now.

"Anyway, if the Demon is hibernating, then that's all the more reason not to try an exorcism. If it's gonna stay there for twenty-two years, then there's time for Sam's body to recover. The more time we give him, the more chance he has of surviving. I don't see why you're so gung ho about doing this now."

John sighed. "Did you read the articles, Dean? Did you look at the pictures?" The silence turned into a hollow shell of emptiness around quivering tension, not unlike the inside of a timpani drum, as Dean re-opened the papers and fought to keep his gaze diverted from his father's searching eyes. "Twenty-two years Dean," John said, recognizing the understanding in his son's features. "Twenty-two years of seizures, unexplained cuts, bruises, and burns…It tortures them. It toys with their minds and their bodies. Is that really what you want for Sam?"

Dean stood as abruptly as he could, given the stiffness in his upper body, and tossed the newspaper clipping back to his father. They caught an updraft and scattered unceremoniously at John's feet. "No! No, that's not what I want! All I'm saying is, we've spent my whole life, Sam's whole life, chasing this thing because of what it did to Mom. If we exorcise it, we'll kill Sam! Then who will be left? What will be left?" He wrapped his right arm tightly against his ribs and heeded his body's earlier urges to stalk across the room. "I get it, okay! I get that we help people, way more people than just us. But most of those people never know what we did for them, most of them would deny it if they did. I've given my whole life for this, and never asked for anything for myself. I've done everything you've ever asked of me, and I've never complained. So now I'm asking…"

His voice trailed off as he braced his hands against the window ledge and gazed absently at the parking lot below. "I'll take care of him, okay? I'll wait on him hand and foot. I've already gotten books, pamphlets, instructions from all of his doctors. I'll do it for twenty-two friggin' years if I have to. If it means I get Sam back at the end, then I'll do it. Sam's the only thing I've ever asked for…" He didn't say please, but John heard it just the same.

John stared at his oldest son's back, the muscles tight beneath his t-shirt, tense and aching, he knew from so much more than the injuries he was recovering from himself. "Dean, I know what he's going through. I know what it's like to have it in your head. Twenty-two years is too much to ask of anyone. Why do you think the man in the clippings committed suicide? A couple tours in 'Nam is nothing compared to what you're suggesting."

Dean leaned into the window, the cold glass pressing into the top of his head. He semi-convinced himself that the drops of moisture on the pane were just his hot breath against the freezing glass. "Not twenty-two years, then. We'll just…God!" He wanted to scream and tear down the cheap vinyl blinds, maybe put his hand through the glass, anything to stop the squeezing and churning inside him, but he was all that was standing between Sam and Death, and he had to keep his game face on. He took a deep breath, his chest shuddering, and pressed his free left hand to the back of his head roughly as he turned to face his father. "We'll just…just long enough for Sam to get stronger, for us to come up with a plan. I'll take him up to Joshua's cabin, and we'll hole up there 'til you can come up with something…" He took another shuddering breath. "Dad, please…" And damn if he wasn't begging again.

John looked at his son, eyes dark and dewy with emotion. "Dean, son," he said rising stiffly from the chair, his bad leg still unbending in front of him, "you've been a good brother. You know that, right? You're right. You always did everything I ever asked of you. You took care of Sammy, and you took care of me, and I'm so proud of you." Dean looked back at him like a deer in headlights and tried to turn away again, but John took him by the shoulder and turned him back around. "I'm sorry you've always had so much on your shoulders. I shouldn't have put that on you. I shouldn't have made Sammy your responsibility. I'm telling you I'm sorry, and I got it from here. You don't have to do this anymore, Dean. You can have more, be more. You got your whole life ahead of you, and I want to give that back to you, since I was the one who took it in the first place."

"No," Dean said, his voice barely a whisper, "It wasn't you, the Demon…"

"Was _my_ problem, _my_ obsession, _my_ life, and I had no right to make it yours. Let me fix this."

Dean brushed his father's hand off his shoulder brusquely, eyes narrowing enough to nearly force tears to spill, but he willed them not to, and the damned things didn't dare cross him. "What the hell is wrong with you?! You can't talk about Sam like he's just some chore you gave me, and then just say, 'here's your allowance kid, now go to a movie or something while I handle the dirty work.' He's my brother! He's your son, goddammit! And no! I am not going to let you just throw him away like spent ammo!" He paused, chest heaving with the strain of his outburst as beads of pained perspiration formed on his brow. "Dad…" the word was soft and broken but still endearing and reverent. For all his bluster and determination, Dean needed his father to accept his decision, no matter how twisted and totally effed up he had to be to make it. "If I have to, I'll take Sam and go where you'll never find us. But I don't want to. Don't make me. I'm just asking for a little more time. Please…"

John's mouth almost opened to protest further, but he met Dean's eyes, the hazel darkened several shades by his intensity and desire, and for once, it was John who couldn't' say no. He dropped his head in concession, "Okay," he said to the floor. "You, you go and get what you need, and I'll see about getting Sam released into your care under the condition that you take the phone I gave you, and stay in touch."

"Yeah, sure, anything," Dean stammered, swallowing convulsively. He'd never asked for anything before, and he was only now realizing that it was mostly due to the fact that he feared he didn't deserve to have what he wanted. To have his dad actually grant him his request was more of a relief than he ever would have believed it would be. It was almost too good to be true. Almost.

John couldn't take the surprised awe in his son's eyes. He grasped the back of Dean's neck affectionately with his one good arm, and if they weren't both tired and sore, he might've gone for the hug, but he didn't. Insead they pulled away after a few seconds.

"I'll just go pick up a few things at the store for the drive, and I'll come back and get Sam. We'll go up to Joshua's cabin, like I said. I can hunt and fish. The pantry's always full. We'll be good for as long as we need to stay. And you'll get with your contacts and try to find some way to help him, right?"

"Yeah, of course," John agreed as Dean moved stiffly to collect his jacket off the back of his chair.

Dean took one last look at Sam before he turned to leave, the blank, white, eyes sending shivers down his spine. "Why do you think…? Why do you think it took his eyes?"

John shook his head slowly. "Could be to isolate him. Could be to hurt us. Maybe there's something he doesn't want Sam to see…"

Swallowing hard and mustering his courage, Dean placed a shaky hand on his brother's head, pushing the bangs back off of his forehead. "Well, we'll just get you some of those chick magnet designer shades, a'ight, little brother?" He smiled weakly, just the corners of his lips moving, and turned to leave.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Dean, John walked casually over and clicked the lock shut. Feeling the Demon's gaze on his back every step of the way, he picked the journal up from the nightstand and turned to meet the glare head on. "I'm not going to let you have him," he said, and his fingers had no trouble locating the exorcism rites.

_Nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done. **Luke 22:42**_

TBC

Did I mention there's ART? Leave a review, then go check it out if you haven't. Run! Go! And as always, thank you.


End file.
